Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73174 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73174 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
“Whoa, whoa,” I muttered, immediately throwing the Bronco into park and cutting the engine. I ran over to Emmett, who was on the lawn, cradling his ankle. “That was a nasty fall. You okay?”
“All good,” he said, even though he was wincing and clearly still in pain.
“How’s that ankle?” I said, ignoring his nonchalant attitude.
He groaned, sitting up in the grass and feeling around his lower leg.
“It’ll be fine,” he finally said. “I’ve sprained it before, and this isn’t even that bad. Side of my foot hurts like hell, though.”
“Could be a tarsal injury,” I offered. “Teammate of mine got one last year. He was normal again within a couple of weeks, though.”
Emmett cut a glare at me. He was breathing heavy, and clearly had been doing lots of physical work out front. I’d never seen him in such plain clothes before, and it was a departure from his usual suits.
He looked really good. He was fitter than I’d realized, and his biceps peeking out of the sleeves caught my eye.
“Go home,” he said.
“What are you even doing out here?” I asked. “This place looks like something out of a fairy tale—”
“I’m putting up my fall decor. Sorry if you hate the whole fall theme, but I want to do it.”
“Don’t hate it at all,” I clarified. “I think it looks pretty fucking awesome out here now, actually, and—wait, shit, Emmett, you’re bleeding.”
There was a trail of blood along the side of his arm that had smeared onto his white shirt.
“Jesus,” he said as he saw the blood, wincing again. “Thought I felt my arm hit the side of the ladder.”
He pulled off his T-shirt, wrapping it around the shallow cuts on his arm.
“Let’s get you inside. You need to clean that arm off.”
“I’m fine on my own,” he told me, his tone a little sharper. He looked up at me and his anger was apparent.
I furrowed my brow. “I just want to help you.”
“I don’t need help right now,” I said. “Thank you very much.”
“Then sorry for offering,” I shot back at him. “Didn’t need help hanging the lantern, don’t need any help with your ankle, don’t need help with the damn cuts even though I’ve probably dressed more wounds in a single football season than you have in your whole life.”
His eyes were cold. “Yes. I’m glad you understand. I don’t need your help, though I appreciate the offer.”
“Liar.”
He stood up on the grass and I stood up right next to him, suddenly aware of my height advantage on him. Suddenly it didn’t matter that it felt like we were in some sort of autumn fantasy-land full of little lights, because all I could see was the raw bitterness in his eyes. We may as well have been in a fighting ring.
Except he was like some fancy, pampered, privileged prince, and I was a beast.
If this were a fighting ring, he’d stand no chance.
“Call me that again,” he challenged me, his voice even and calm.
“Liar,” I said, lingering on the word and holding his gaze firmly. Because fuck backing down.
Suddenly it felt like my body lit up from within. Adrenaline, ferocity, anger, and desire, too. I was too aware of the fact that he was shirtless now, and that he looked way too damn good in the low, glowing light. So he had real muscle under all his stupid expensive clothes, apparently.
Was he actually going to try to punch me?
Would I like it if he did?
And why couldn’t I look at him without desire gripping me into some fucked-up chokehold that wouldn’t let go? I did want to fight him, but I couldn’t tell what else I wanted.
Too much. I was so filled with pure wanting that I could barely believe I was actually standing here looking at him shirtless, like some fevered fantasy that my mind must have been cooking up.
“Why are you offering me help, anyway?” he finally said.
“Because I saw the look in your eyes earlier tonight when I asked you to come back to my place with me,” I said, lifting an eyebrow. “It’s your favorite little time of the year, and you’re lonely.”
“Shut up.”
“Yet you won’t even let me hang a fucking lantern for you.”
“You were just trying to push my buttons, asking me to come home with you,” he said.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you don’t really want me,” he said, raising his voice as his eyes flared wide again. “You don’t really want me,” he repeated.
He may as well have socked me right in the chest.
My heart squeezed, hearing the silent defeat in his tone.
There was something real about it. More real than all of the bluffing he usually tried to pull around me. He sounded lost, almost.
Had I really had that effect on him? Was Emmett really so confused about me?